Feelin' Groovy
by Olhado
Summary: Sequel to FSFF AND So Happy Together. Used to be "Subsidiary Teahouse of the Gah." Forge-centric surrealistic romp with some major emphasis on Mystique, Callisto, Scott, Magneto, Xavier, and Kurt. Whee.
1. Prologue

**Major Disclaimers of Grand Disclaimer-ness**

1.  Yes, I do seem to be starting another fic.  Perhaps there will be a few scattered screams of angst on that point, although the fact that I'd better just rate this R right off to be safe probably means that a lot of poor souls reading Backdraft and whatever other unfinished fics I have that people read won't see this at all.  But, just in case, I'm not close to done with Backdraft and I do have a couple of chapters to edit and put up pretty soon.  On other fronts . . . I'm afraid I gutted Horde and Confessions of a Kitty to make FSFF and this continuation, but maybe, one day, Walk on the Wild Side will have its final chapter.

2.  This really isn't a proper "new fic."  In fact, it's a direct continuation of Falls the Shadow, Falls the Flame from the last chapter before the epilogues on.  I didn't really like how the supposedly finished FSFF ended and neither did anyone else.  So this is my attempt to end it properly.  Which _still_ means it'll be long.  Probably at least fifty pages (yes, that's an arbitrary number).  

3.  As you probably guessed, this isn't going to make a whole lot of sense if you haven't read Falls the Shadow, Falls the Flame first.  Probably no sense.  I was thinking of writing a synopsis . . . but I'm not sure I can.  It's that weird.  

4.  This is rated R for violence.  I mean violence, folks.  That and freaky thematics.  There may be some mild sexual inneundo, but it will remain mild.

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_Whee__._

_Here we go._

_Let's backtrack.  Let's backtrack to shiny blood that glows with B-movie radiation.  Let's backtrack to devils that die.  Let's backtrack to guns emptying their bullets in and through your guts.  Let's backtrack to screams, let's backtrack to pain that courses so hard that it cancels itself out and reverts to a tinged numbness.  Let's backtrack to a final explosion that starts at your forehead and quivers for a half of a half of a half of a second before screaming darkness just above the nape of your neck._

_Let's backtrack to death._

_At least, what would be death in any world with the slightest sense of cleanliness and ecology.  There's a certain point when everything from whales to sparrows to sweet little bunnies to Forges has to give up its space to some other organism.  If only to keep the clutter down.  It's just not aesthetic for Bambi to be tottering around without certain vital organs.  The poor dear has to die so we don't have to look at him any more.  You bury the remains or let them rot -- sooner or later, there won't be anything left but a few stray bones so brittle that they'll crumble under the slightest pressure._

_So let's backtrack again.  Let's backtrack to the promise that the chittering voices that call themselves my Ancestors (with a capital A, mind you) made that, if I woke up from Death Number 1 to save this pocket universe from its unsuitable maker, I'd be free from her.  And all that entails, my friends.  That means I would not be here.  It means I would be properly dead.  Really really dead.  _

_I mean, why shouldn't I be dead?  Someone explain to me why I am still thinking despite that, in all fairness and light, I shouldn't have enough of a brain for anything of the sort.  Let's repeat to ourselves over and over the truth about short range gun shots._

_Let's also repeat to ourselves the truth about making deals with strange voices.  We all know that's never a good thing.  We all know about Faust, the silly man.  We all know he signed in blood.  If you stretch the metaphor a little, so did I.  Quite a lot more blood than Faust used, granted, but the same basic idea._

_I dunno, though.  I felt pretty well like I was dying there for a second.  Way to get your hopes up.  Even before the happy she played target practice with me, I could have sworn my body was breaking down in the most basic sense.  You know, it didn't feel right.  At all.  We're not even talking about the odd and visible physical side effects like transparency, although that was pretty creepy in and of itself.  We're talking about little flickers of internal flame banking up between ribs and between bones and sinews and whatever else.  Spontaneous combustion has nothing on this._

_But here I am.  Somewhat colder.  I mean, of course.  Have no option to be otherwise.  Any hotter than I was and there wouldn't be a cinder to kick around (pun unintentional, really).  It's not as though I'm feeling chipper enough to get up on my heels and dance.  Not even quite chipper enough to blink._

_I'm still alive and I can't help but have this odd little feeling that this just isn't going to _end_.___


	2. A time to be born

You can wake up to anything. Really, you can. You can wake up in the smoke-fires of hell and . . . you'll still have to wake up. I mean, in theory, people are so picky about what they wanna see when they first open their eyes, especially if you go in for all that artsy-fartsy sentimental crap. At the very least, they want a pillow rising over the eye-blotch that represents their nose and a round and brassy alarm clock perched on the dresser and maybe a paper or two of unfinished homework to provide humorous stress. That's for a normal day, of course. It's gotta be something entirely more sublime if you're a "hero" after the huge and bloody cataclysm, when you've saved the world (or something related) and killed the villain. You've made deals with various witches and sorcerers (and devils, let's just re-emphasize that), but they absolve you of the debt and dunk you in some magical restorative spring. And, okay, you've struggled a little against the revival, because any nifty-keen hero has a guilt complex so wide that he demands his own death for payment for his wrongs. But then you wake up and . . . goodness me! . . . there's the princess or the leather-clad she-warrior, depending on your preferences, and the screen/page is infused with such glorious light that the pains and aches and angsts are forgotten in a moment of bliss.

But in reality . . .you can wake up to anything. You might not even wake up at all, but . . . assuming you do, there's really no guarantee that there will be a dear one leaning over you, just waiting for you to say something. There's no guarantee, even, that the amiable thief-comic will be cracking a joke to make you laugh (and hurt your shattered ribs, of course). There's no guarantee that you won't wake up in the dried out husk of the world you supposedly saved, utterly and completely alone.

Dramatic, isn't it? I guess so. I might have preferred a little company in my first, awakening reactions. You know, I was kinda looking forward to being dead and stuff. You can have so much fun being dead! Or . . . maybe not, but . . . yeah. Where was I? Right. Getting up. It's always hard to get up for me. Even if the bed is hard and settles uncomfortably against my back, I guess I unconsciously feel that going back to sleep is easier than stumbling to my feet and facing, well, whatever. Even the princess (honesty, I'm stretching my metaphor here). If you know how hairline a "successful day" is, how hinged on a careless word or a slip of expression, how can you help but be a little wary?

I know I'm hedging. You want to know about my great and desolate loneliness and I'm desperate enough that I'm telling you, despite the fact you don't exist and my thoughts are echoing right back to me as response. I'm revisiting the horror, but the despair is still shimmering in the walls and I'm sharing my memories with it, if I'm sharing them with anyone. Am I crazy? You bet, but even discussion that is happily edging away from what I'm supposed to be saying. Doesn't everyone want to hear about my near-death experience? Isn't it a source of hope when someone passes to the Great Beyond and returns with a type-set story to prove to the world that . . .

Well, sorry. I never left my body. I didn't see anything except . . . well, nothing, until I had to wake up, because my body was functioning too alertly to let me sleep anymore. I could have gone for seeing something. I'd give something for a moment of . . . it's chintzy, but, you know . . . peace. Resolve. "You did okay." Anything. But I awoke to find my workshop gone and my body lying out in a worn out copy of a department store. I could have gone for a chill angry wind or two . . . or even a stale brooding of the air, but there was nothing so tangible. I exhaled and started to yell a little, but it didn't make feel better. Hurrah for emptiness.

I really hate what all this has done to me. I mean, no doubt I'm being all idyllic about my pre-hell days, but no matter what Xavier thought, I was happy. Basically. Not like I was on drugs or anything, but if I didn't understand everything all the time, there was stuff I could hold on to. Like my family. And God. I always swore to myself that I would never, never play the "poor sad doubter" tact. I would never stare at the sky and cry there was nothing out there, and blast if I still won't. Whatever happened, I thought I could handle it without . . . well, I could handle it with help, right. But there's the problem. I'm so lost in myself that, you know, I've always really tried to pull it all alone.

At the end, I didn't have anything left to pull. I can feel light streaming through the empty parts of my body and nothing's changed from the first moment she cut off life support. I feel about as substantial as an ink-drained wisp of a newspaper, blown up against a wall and left. No one even to step on me anymore. My pain's nothing more than a twinge of existence.

Look, I hate it. I hate the fact that I'm curled up in a corner of a shadow of my old school lab, curled up there because it's silent of shades and I hate the fact that I can't do anything but cry to myself, when I should find some outlet for doing. Or praying, but the she dragged me so dry that I forgot to and I don't know if I can anymore. I'd be too afraid, maybe. See, it's not as though I don't believe in God anymore -- it's more I'm not sure it's mutual. What if I prayed, only to find out that God answered much like Raven did? "How long ago did you learn to fake praying so your mommy would think you were a good boy?" The scary thing about God is he knows the answers -- the real ones , not the vaguely and impersonally observed ones, and the last thing I want is a real and final declaration that I am not capable of emoting or praying without ulterior motive, that I'm not much short of a sociopath, if short at all, or . . . that maybe the she wasn't such a liar at all and I'm quite nicely programmed to act real and autonomous, that there are controllers beyond controllers beyond . . . I know it's a wan and cowardly form of fear, but, man, if sometimes you really don't want to know and you don't have to ask. Can't risk the chance of it being negative for the faint and probably unlikely hope of the positive.

So I can remain safe and empty as a cheerfully abandoned and badly cracked pot. Oh, wasn't it nice to wander through Bayville and watch fleeting car shapes pass through you? Wasn't it fun to try to engage a nothing-person, there for a moment and then not . . . And then you abandoned it as surely as you were abandoned and fled to a solitude that was at least quiet. Isn't it great to wonder if this is your own private eternity, bereft of even building materials, bereft of a way out and anyone to talk to, and grasping for your darkest memories to make your present state seem not-so-bad? Isn't it great to grasp for rest -- as defined by lack of activity -- with nothing but despondent nightmares to lull you?

Oh yes. You bet it's great. Swell. Don't think it hasn't occurred to me that I died after all and this is hell proper. "Hey, Forge, you were way too busy during life, what with chopping your arm off at every opportunity, and dude, you were so not busy in the right way. Sure, you did some good things, but not for the right reasons. You were just scared of guilt. Let the happy people die and you'll never hear the end of it, huh? Well, perk up and smile, you don't have to worry about guilt anymore! No people to wrong! No innocent furniture to wantonly destroy! It's just you, forever."

And, man, but I wish I could cut the constant internal commentary, for all that.

But, ah, but it looks like I'll be interrupted.

There's a wind whipping my hair againt my neck and my shirt against my back and I don't turn around or sit up because I _know_ what it is.  Wind doesn't exist here unless it's introduced, like a barracuda in a goldfish pond.  It doesn't just rise up on its own.  Someone's gotta let it . . .

I wait for the wind to peter out and die before I move -- and then I move slowly and gradually in a semi-circle until I can see what the wind left for me.

It's unconscious . . . and "it" is about how I can describe the poor piece of flotsam.  It's not human.  A long, pointed tail like an illustration of Dante coils limply back beyond its large and thick-formed feet and the entire creature is lightly furred and . . . blue.

Blue.  Huh.  Grand . . . hold on a blasted hey, how did it _get_ here?  Is someone playing with my old thing, after all these . . . 

I slip over by the body, crouching beside its head.  Well, the face is personable enough.  Clothing doesn't do much for it, gotta say.  Sparse, maybe?  Just a thin white hospital-issue looking gown that barely covers the guy (okay, it's a guy) even down to the upper, upper thigh.  Wow, gee, this just gets more fun by the moment.

I take his shoulder and shake it to see if there's the slightest flicker of awareness . . . but there isn't.  I shake again, accompaning the motion with a peevish plea for being noticed.  "He-ey, man.  Let's get up."

Gah, nothing.  I squint down at the sharp blue face and scowl.  There's a flicker now -- but it's not the flicker I'm looking for.  It's the same ol' groovy flicker related to the she's threads and the she herself . . . 

And what's sprawled out at my knees is a half-seen.  Er, I mean, there's that easily seen physicalness right _there_ and then there's ties and echoes of something the normal person isn't capable of viewing and it's not that clear for me either.  It's a visual tint -- of scorch-black smoke and of yellow tooth and of fire . . . yep, definitely a lurid iridescent fire thing under all that.

Dimension.  Hostile, but the creature is built to endure it, in small . . . very small . . . spurts.  But . . . dimension.  Yeah, sure, dimension like an escape dropped on my doorsetp that I don't actually know how to use.  I don't have any _tools_ anymore, save what dangles off my arm if I let it come out.  By the time I woke up from my catatonia, the stuff I'd dragged down with me . . . well, I didn't even know how to backtrack . . . I guess it'd be in the shadow-Institute somewhere if it exists anymore, but I never wanted to go back there.  Guess I was terrified of . . . that something happening or something.  And my fake lab was just that -- even the sword I created . . . well, its existence was only in her mind -- and mine, maybe.  Blast if I know what that "soul-fire" did to me.

But those are gone now.  Gone with her fake neighborhood and her stolen children.  It's just me and I'm not worth much without something extra to play with.  I've got me and a . . . teleporter, apparently, who's out like a light and not so strongly connected to his brimstone birthplace to draw himself out of here and back to Earth.  Whee.  Poor guy.

He's stirring, finally.  I ease back and let him stir.  No reason to be the absolute first thing he sees, leaning right in his face.  "Hey buddy!  My name's Forge!  What's yours?!"  He'd love that.  So I try to stay a little off to the side while he blinks his yellow eyes and kinda sucks his lip in.  Looks a bit confused.  Wonder why?

"Aaaaach," he growns to himself, flailing two thick fingers toward his forehead and not quite making it.

It's time to take the polite route.  Polite, concerned, don't ask too many self-serving questions.  "Hey, you all right?"

He streams off something surprised in German (that's what I'm guessing) and his eyes flick convulsively toward me, one hand poised in a half-clutched position.  "Who . . . who are you?"  

Thank goodness for communication.  "My _name_ is Forge, but I'd kinda guess that's not all you're asking, right?"

He blinks, but doesn't move otherwise.  His expression is too blank to pass for anything other than . . . blank, but since I'd be terribly suspicious of me in his situation, I go right ahead and continue.

"Basically, I'm the sole inhabitant of this _marvelous_ landscape you see before you.  Kinda dropped here not-really-by-accident, but close enough, twenty years ago and I don't really know why _you're_ here, so, yeah, what's your name?"

"What's _going on?_"  He jerks into a fully sitting position, both hands moving frantically and dramatically for emphasis.  "How did I get here?  What _is_ here?  What am . . . "  he glances down at his front.  "What the . . . why am I wearing _this?_"

I decide this dear fellow and I are bound to be friends, whatever he is.  "Ah, so many insightful questions . . . heck, if I don't wish I had the answers myself.  All I know is that you just showed up, so I kinda assume it had something to do with the old machine of mine that got me here.  And here is kinda . . . here.  It's kinda a place wedged between Earth and . . . something else."

"Old machine?  What?"  He takes a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to fold his hands calmly in his lap.  "Okay . . . okay.  Never mind where, then.  How do I get _out_, because, no offense, man, but this is more than a little . . . "  he stares up at the ceiling.  " . . . whacked."

"No argument.  But there's no . . . way out, see.  I'm sorry."

"No way out?"  His eyes are still tilted firmly at the ceiling.

"Not really.  That's just the funny thing, though.  You're kinda attuned to get out of here.  You can teleport, right?"  

"How would you know?" he asks evenly.  Wow, that ceiling sure is fascinating.

"It's not important.  Let's just say no one told me.  But, see . . . ah, for you to get out of here . . . "

He vanishes and reappears, still in the sitting position, half a yard away.  It takes me a half second to process what he just did and . . . whoa, yeah.  There's that barrier that encompasses everything and keeps one dimension from seeping into another and he just . . . circumvented that like it wasn't even _there_.

"Oh_ man_," the creature cries in disappointment, but I'm having to fight to contain my excitement.

"_Yes_.  What you just did -- you know, I'd have given a couple of years to do _that_.  Do it again!"

He stares at me.  
  


"I mean it!  Come on, just a quick one."

"All . . . right."  Another collapse of air and he's gone again, reappearing slightly to one side.  I follow the trajectory, the half-seen and rather limp form of the creature skidding on that _other side_ of the barrier passing quickly from one end to the other.  

I'm grinning like an idiot.  "I _have_ to get my stuff now.  I can work with this!  I can!  If I can just find sufficient . . . "

"What the _heck_ are you talking about?"

I barely notice his franticness.  I'm pacing up and down the washed out lab floor and just seconds from clapping my hands in time with my footfalls.  You can't know what it's like to have the old _rush_ again!  "I'm talking about maybe we _can_ get out.  Oh yes.  You can get out already, man.  Just did.  The only trouble is you're not slipping through that brimstone-y place you usually do, you're slipping through Earth proper.  If we could just _change_ where you came out . . . except . . . ga-ah . . . "  I prop my chin between two fingers and glance at him sidelong.  "I don't know if I can do it electronically.  This whole funky dimension thing's coded right _into_ you and I _know_, even if everything's perfect and my materials are still anywhere, I don't have anything to play with genetics.  No, wouldn't want to do that.  Have to do it electronically, or not at all.  But how . . . "

"I don't understand a word you're saying," the creature moans and sinks his head into his hands.  

All right, maybe it would be a good time to be at least marginally sympathetic.  "I'm sorry.  I kinda . . . forget when I'm on a roll like that.  Assuming it's a roll.  Okay.  What's the last thing you remember?"

"I _thought_ I was going to school."

"School?"  I can't keep my eyes from roving right to his tail.  Wow, gee, they're a lot more tolerent than when I was a kid.

He sighs.  "I don't look like _this_ when I go to school.  I have a . . . "  He glances at his wrist reflexively and frowns.  "I _had _a holographic inducer.  Makes me look normal."

"Ah, right.  So, you were going to school . . ."

"Yes!  That's all.  I was walking and then I blacked out.  That's all I know!"

"Gah."  I snap my fingers . . . or try to.  Never was much good at snapping my fingers.  "That doesn't leave me with much.  What I guess I'll do is head over to where I might have some stuff stashed and . . . "

I pause.  A breeze snatches at the creature's fur and my hair and I'm frozen in the thought that someone _else_ is going to implode into the shadows . . . but it's different this time.  The wind picks up like a funnel and it nearly knocks me off my feet -- while the creature sprawls on all fours, his tail trailing back behind him like a banner.  The washed-out far wall melts into what seems garish color after all this time . . . although its dark and grey, with the only real splash of hue being the figure holding a . . . thing.  An almost familiar thing, but it's _not_ mine after all.  Oddly enough, the figure has a vague familiarity as well, young, with red glasses of all things . . .

Huh.  Red.  

Huh . . . out!  Right!  

The creature apparently figured that one out quicker than I did.  He's crawling toward the opening and jerking his head toward it . . . ah, trying to get me to follow.  I do, trying to keep my balance.

"I'm going to try to teleport through," he shouts over the roar of the exit wind and I nod . . . but am completely taken off guard when he grabs my forearm and teleports.

It's quick.  I know that, because I've watched the creature 'port and it takes a half second at most.  But my abrupt disaffection from old typical walking reality is considerably expanded.  Figures.  I can feel myself straddling the faded and the real for a minute and then it's like my spine's pressed hard against steel -- and it's curved steel so I'm bending back against the surface on the verge of breaking . . .

And I'm half blind, everything's misted, but I can see the shimmering red-shaded guy and I can see him press something on the thing and the surface slams hard once against me . . . and then it's gone and I'm on my rear in the dust of my _real_ old lab in a comprimising position.  The creature is slumped next to me, eyes wide.

"Scott?"

Scott?  Hey, wait a . . .

Scott shakes his head convulsively, recoiling and actually dropping the mostly-familiar thing, which lands with a broken clatter at his feet.  "Kurt!  What's happened?  What am I . . . "  He swears under his breath, so softly I can bearly catch it.  "All right.  You're wearing a hospital gown, I'm using machinery that I don't recognize, and I don't think I know who you are."  I assume by the tilt of his glasses that he's talking to me.  That and I don't think my name is Kurt, nor am I wearing a hospital gown and . . . Scott?

I struggle woozily to my feet.  "I'm Forge.  Uh . . . I'm not sure what's going on, but, hey, I'm indebted to you.  I've been in this funny little dimension for . . . a long time and it looks like you and Kurt just got me out."

"Eh?"  Scott stares at me, then Kurt, then me again, his brow furrowing.  "Wait . . . oh no.  _You_ look awfully familiar.  Forge?"

"Yes, that's my name.  Forge."  Scott?  I've gotta stop saying that.

"No _way_."  Scott laughs, very shortly, and it's Kurt's turn to look terribly lost.

I've got to ask _now_.  "You . . . remember?"

"How could I _not_?  I'm suprised you remember _me_.  I'm definitely not eight any more and you . . . haven't changed a bit."  He tilts his head briefly to one side.  "You were also dead, as I remember."

"What?" 

"I'll explain it later, Kurt."

"Ah, yes, the whole dead thing.  I guess not."  I rub the back of my neck.  "But man, if I know why I'm not dead."  How long was I sleeping?  _Look_ at him.  "Wow, you look about eighteen now."

"That's right.  It's been about ten years."  He looks down at the ruined metal . . . thing and sighs.  "I'm still not sure how this _happened_.  I thought I was in class.  But at least you're _out_."

"Yeah . . . yeah, I appreciate that.  Um . . . Scott, Kurt.  Great meeting you and all, but I think I'm going to . . . go home."  Wow.  Home.

"I can give you a ride . .  ."  

"That's all right.  I'd rather walk."  I feel vaguely guilty about appearing and disappearing.  I mean, I really am _very_ interested as to what Scott's been doing for the past ten years and why he was operating something similar to what I made back in '78, and I feel sorry for poor blue Kurt in his hospital gown, but, um, yep, not really into making long conversation at the moment.  "But, yeah, thanks.  Both of you.  I'll . . . see you around . . . "

"We're at the Xavier Institute," Scott say seriously as I start moving away.

"Oh."  Well, could have guessed that.  Mutants.  Xavier.  Yep.  

"I don't mean to sound insensitive, but are you sure your home is still . . . home?  Would it be safer to maybe spend the night at the Institute and . . . "

"No.  Sorry.  Maybe some other time.  I really do want to talk to you later.  But . . . not now."  Scott nods, Kurt looks embarressed, and I'm finally out of the cellar.

What progress we have made.


	3. Nothing new under the heavens

It's dark, for all the talk of school and class and there's something surreal about still having a _house key_ in my pocket. Of course, if my parents changed the locks, breaking in isn't going to be a problem. As I look up at the awnings from the sidewalk, the outer garage light flicks on. A simple motion detector. A little slow. They don't have my system on, that's for sure. Of course, I already checked that by flicking some fair sized pebbles into the driveway. They weren't vaporized . . . so I judged it to be . . . safe in one sense or another.   
  
No one appears to be home. It's not terribly late and my parents had a habit of working long into the night . . . but what am I saying? It's been twenty years. They're, what, sixty somethings now? Maybe even retired and bed at eight is perfectly normal. It's not as though I've been around to watch.   
  
I don't like the darkness in the windows anyway. It's unfamiliar. Unfamiliar is bad, you see -- because unfamiliar can mean a change of habit, _or_ it can mean that they moved away and there's some cranky old guy wheezing upstairs with one finger on a police alert button, just _waiting_ for some hoodlum to break in.  
  
Of course, if someone did call the cops on me, there'd be that whole awkward question thing again. Save, even harder to explain, when the only photo ID I have is my driver's licence from 1977 and let me _tell_ you do I match the picture.  
  
So I walk very quietly up to the porch and find a window to peer in. It's dark, yes, and I could go for Callisto's eyes, but the basic shadow-shapes of the furniture seem _about_ right.  
  
Ah, there's nothing for it. I walk back to the driveway, select a pebble, and cautiously approach the door. The pebble bounces lightly off the doorknob without mishap and I finally fit the key into the lock, turn . . .   
  
And it clicks. Great.  
  
Not _smart_ to leave your locks unchanged for twenty years, but we can fix that later.   
  
I push the door open with my shoulder, still trying to keep down the noise. I toy with the idea of leaving the lights off, just in case there really _is_ a cranky and paranoid old man upstairs, but decide that tripping over coffee tables and banging against every corner in the living room would be more disruptive anyway. I turn the lights on.  
  
And the furniture is _mostly_ the same. There's a lamp in the corner I don't recognize and the rug is different, but it's otherwise all there and neat and not-abandoned and there's no reason to believe my parents aren't just out or sleeping.  
  
It's still home.  
  
I close the door behind me and am about to walk boldly right out of the entryway when I notice I'm leaving footprints.  
  
Not mud, either.  
  
"Oh . . . " I sit down on the linoleum and tug my shoes off, moving to wipe the tread-stains off with the slack of my shirt (hey, it'll wash out) -- but my shirt is . . . pretty sodden.  
  
" . . . crap," I finally finish, standing back up in my socks and holding my shoes together in one hand. My socks have to be clean enough to brave the carpet, because I'm getting out of these clothes as quickly as possible and why aren't the voices ever quite as efficient as they claim to be? Hiding stuff again. This had better be the _last_ time something is hidden, because . . .  
  
_Blast it, none of this is possible!_  
  
Oh, _now_, you figure _that_ one out. Quick, Forge. Very quick.  
  
I tiptoe as rapidly as I can through the living room and up the stairs (nearly tripping on the top step) and into the bathroom where I can wrench on the light and kick the door shut in the same instant.  
  
And wish my parents didn't have a thing for half-length bathroom mirrors.  
  
Okay, everyone has a thing for half-length bathroom mirrors. They're very nice for squeezing zits and brushing hair and examining your pectorals, assuming you have them. But sometimes, it'd be nice to just be able to strip off your clothes and dive into the shower without having to look at yourself in between. You know, when you've been conked out in a virtual coma for, I dunno, five days and your hair is all matted and nasty and your eyes are swollen shut and you could use a few thousand applications of deoderant before they'd . . .  
  
"That's _not_ going to wash out." It's back again, see, the shirt that I could have _sworn_ I was wearing before someone was so clever as to use my _head_ for target practice. It's not the only thing that's back. There's some other stains and clumps I wasn't quite as aware of, as they probably all took place in a split second where I wasn't paying much attention.  
  
I hope I didn't drip on the stairs. Or leave little trails on the sidewalk as soon as I was out of eye-shot of the mutant kids, like I did the _first_ time something large and rather vascular decided to explode.  
  
Those are the sort of things that prompt those awkward questions.  
  
Oh well, business as usual. But if I wash, it had _better_ go away this time.  
  
I'll even clean the tub afterwards.  
  
If I can find the Clorox.  
  
I pull off the shirt and wish there was somewhere to put it where it wouldn't automatically make a mess. There isn't. I'm not capable of suspending laundry in air, so it'll go on the floor. No, wait. The garbage. It's in remarkably good shape for all it's been through, but I think even Salvation Army might object to that particular kind of tie-dye. Eh heh. Retro.  
  
Pants are in slightly better shape, but, you know what? I don't really want to wear any of this again. It gets old. Unzip, let it fall, scoop the mass up and stuff that in after the shirt.  
  
Which leaves me in underwear, socks, and little necklace-thingy. Underwear's still partially white, but only partially. Socks are still fine (although the trickle is getting a little close). Oh, what the hey. It all goes. Even the necklace thingy. I'm sure they have stores that cater to that kind of taste in psuedo-jewelry and, no, I'm not that sentimental about a thingy I only wore into hell because I didn't think to take it off.  
  
Look how far I've come. I can be perfectly calm about a little blood. It's not as though it _means_ anything any more. The sources are all nicely healed . . . if they _are_ healed by unknown and possibly illegal means, well, I shouldn't complain. Just get in the shower and finally wash it off.  
  
_Man_, it's going to take _hours._  
  
The shower curtain is a dark and photo-realistic representation of dolphins. My fingerprints scarcely show on the edges. You'd have to squint. The taps are different. Less ornate than they used to be. Just little metal knobs, one with a times-new-roman C, the other with an H. I have to play with them for about half a minute before the temperature's right. Pull the shower node and here we go.  
  
The water on my back is more shocking than it should be, but, yes, it's been a while. Showers weren't particularly, ah, necessary when things were either cleaned or stubbornly stayed dirty by the whim of the great She. Well, let's be honest. It's not so greatly different under the reign of the powerful and imposing Tittering Inner Voices, who can't clean anything, but can pretend for a while so your new friends aren't terribly frightened by the mess.  
  
And, yes, again, I should be dying of gratitude for their role in pulling me from near-death into a glorious role in the dethroning of the fiend, not to mention their role in pulling me from death-death into . . . reality. I should. But the trouble with these near-death experiences and seemingly divine hands dragging you back into life is that the tone is all wrong. I admit I have my own ideas on the subject, but I don't think many people think of God or even angels as disembodied voices that mutter rather incessantly and sound suspiciously like symptoms of movie-schizophrenia.   
  
That's an idea. I'm not a thirty-eight-year-old man in a pretty-dang-abused eighteen year-old body. I'm a thirty-eight-year-old man in a thirty-eight-year-old body who got checked into the happy place quite a while ago and is still so immersed in his delusions that he hasn't noticed yet.  
  
That'd make more sense. If you think about it, the last twenty years of my "life" has bordered just a _little_ on the surreal. The crazy.  
  
The "what was your mom smoking when she had you?"  
  
Interesting to put it that way. _That's_ still unresolved. The whole question of "Okay, if everyone who was supposedly changed and shaped by _her_ was actually a mutant all along, but you weren't _ever_ a mutant, and you're obviously not entirely _hers_ either and there are little voices that can repair your body and hide wounds from even _your_ senses when they're inconvenient . . .  
  
. . . well, then, what are you?"  
  
Twenty years and still don't have the faintest idea.  
  
The shampoo bottles have changed (well, I'd rather hope they would have). More, how to put it . . . Not art _decor_ per se, not exactly crafty (if it was crafty, there'd be little hemp strings coming out from under the cap), but this whole semi-transparent logo thing, very classy, I'm sure. I start gathering up my hair more towards the top of my scalp (more manageable that way) and a new wash of released red whips down my back for an uncomfortably long duration.  
  
That was probably one hey of an exit wound when it was still there. Don't need to think about it. Hopefully not any more.  
  
It's some time and the water has turned tepid and enough blood has gone down the drain to more than satisfy Hitchcock before I feel clean enough to venture out of the shower. And immediately have to go to the bathroom. Haven't done that in a while either. It's doubtless pure instinct that I still remember how to use the toilet paper.  
  
Now for getting dry and getting dressed. I wrap a towel around my waist, check my feet just to make sure, and run down the hall towards what _was_ my room and pray that they haven't boxed up everything and stuffed it in storage somewhere.

I'm not sure whether I expect my room to still be there at _all_. You can't expect anything to still be there after twenty years and just because your parents appear to be still existing and your house hasn't turned into a rotting junk heap of corroded boards and pipes doesn't mean that your bedroom is still your bedroom. I mean, maybe they adopted to, y'know, fill the void, assuming I left one. Maybe there's rubber duckies strewn all over the floor and my clothes have been torn apart and re-sewn together as blankies.  
  
Okay, maybe that's a little ridiculous, but you never know.  
  
But when I finally pry open the door that _was_ mine, it . . . well, it's still mine. Only cleaner. They took the underwear off the floor, at least. I tighten my grip on the towel, walk over to the bureau . . . my bureau . . . and tug a drawer open with a hesistancy so sudden and pervasive it constricts my movements a little.  
  
There are clothes in the drawer. They are my clothes. And they don't smell particularly well -- I mean, they've been gathering must for how long? -- but they'll do. I drop the towel and just rip on the clothes as quickly as I can. I'm not interested in either savoring my nakedness or my terrific change in wardrobe. Forgive me if I still feel vulnerable in halfway situations like this. Never liked being caught with pants still dangling around my ankles at the best of times.  
  
Anyway. I'm dressed. Sitting on the bed I haven't been _near_ since the night Mom leaned over it with a gun to my head. Ah, that was thrilling. Marked the high-stress point of my life until the next morning. And the next. And the . . .  
  
Just hard for me to believe that it's over. That I can be, you know, _normal_ now. That I can just sit on a bed and not have to worry about it exploding. Wow.  
  
Of course, normal is relative and I haven't so much as seen my parents yet. They might want me to move out. After all, I'm thirty-eight.  
  
Oh gah, I still don't know how to deal with _anything._ What on earth am I going to tell them? "Hi. Mom. Dad. Um, I'm home!" Not that I know or anything, but they might want more of an explanation and I'm scared to death of explanations. They're going to be pretty upset as it is. There are some things they don't need to know. Like the whole . . . um, shooting thing. Yeah. I can skip over that. No problem.  
  
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Ce-e-iling. Used to do that a lot, I think. Looks the same. Funny white plaster stuff with little ridges that you could run your finger along in bored minutes, if you were tall enough. Or were standing on the bed. Good times.  
  
And then, because we all know my life has this kind of timing, the doorbell rings.  
  
No decent salesman drops by at this hour. Wouldn't it be fun if my parents are on vacation and it's the poor neighbor taking care of the cat, wondering why the lights are on? Wouldn't it be fun to go trip-trapping downstairs and scare the hey out of her?  
  
Not really. I stay on the bed and the doorbell rings again. And again. I have a niggling little fear that maybe my parents locked themselves out . . . but if _so_ they wouldn't be ringing the doorbell, would they? Absolutely no reason to go down there. None at . . .   
  
I can swear it's against my will that I go down the stairs at all and end up at the door. I don't even look through the peephole before turning the knob and swinging that door open and since I know I'm generally too paranoid to do anything like that, I'm not all that surprised when I see Xavier's wheelchair perched on the doorstop. I express my lack of surprise by slamming the door in his face. Hurrah for self expression.  
  
_Forge. Open the door._  
  
"Uh huh, yeah. I'm going to open the door." I lean against the wall and whistle loudly.  
  
_Open the door. I need to talk to you._  
  
In a brief moment of childishness, I just have to plug my ears and turn up the whistling.   
  
_Forge!_  
  
"Oh, all _right_." And I open the door again. He hasn't moved, of course. "What do you want?"  
  
"What do you think I want, Forge? I heard from two of my students you had returned. I needed to see how you were."  
  
Well, duh, where have I _been_ for twenty years? "I'm great! Terrific! I bet _you_ don't age _half_ this well!"  
  
Xavier sighs, but gets a suspicious probing look that lasts several seconds before the usual concerned indifference melts away into a wince. "Ah. No, I don't." He blinks, momentarily discomfited. Weird. "I see you've had quite the time."  
  
"Oh, no, been very dull. Wanted my yo-yo constantly. Pined over it, even." I don't know what it is about Xavier that makes me act so difficult around him, really! I mean, I shouldn't hold that much of a grudge. He was just there. He wasn't terribly warm and fuzzy, but that's just fine. I mean, technically. As it is, I just don't like the guy and he's hardly the first person I want to have a heart-to-heart with.  
  
"I understand if you don't want to talk about it," he says with some strain in his voice that might be frustration. "But I came more to warn you than to comfort you. I would suggest you come back to the Inst-"  
  
"No."  
  
"Forge, you can't put your dislike of me over your own safety."  
  
"Why on _earth_ wouldn't I be safe here, Xavier? There is _no she any more._ She's gone. I can _live_ like a real person, even if I'm _not_ one, so if you would be so _kind_ . . ."  
  
Xavier gives me a look that borders on the sincere pity. Wow, gee, he's only done that _once_ before. "I'm not sure that's true, Forge."   
  
"It'd better be. I'm _done._"  
  
"You have _right_ to be done. But that doesn't mean you are. If nothing else, Forge, _how_ are you still alive?"  
  
"Ah. That." Don't have a clue. "The chips fall as they will. There's always a second chance. The chickens are hatched and duly counted and, Xavier, if you're not going to give me anything more concrete than _that_ as a warning, I'm going to bed."  
  
"I don't have a concrete warning to . . . give," Xavier counters cautiously. "However, I can tell you that it may be your reappearance that set off enough alarms to put several government agencies on red alert."

"Say wha? How'd you know that?" 

"Forge, I keep an Institute of children who can outfight the National Guard if pressed. I have a few _very_ important contacts in high places for that purpose."

"Alarms? But why on earth . . . " 

"This particular contact also informed me that the government had an _extensive_ confidential file on you."

"Well . . . yeah," I say with more vehemence than I feel. "I did . . . work for it, you know. I mean, they're probably still wondering where that atom bomb I promised them went."

Xavier raises an eyebrow.

"Kidding."

"Of course. Forge, this personal file of yours has been updated every _day_ for the entirity of your life."

"Eh? Why?"

"That's all the information I was given."

I run a hand through my hair, squinting at one of Xavier's wheels, as it's there. "That's pretty odd. What would they have to say for the past twenty years?"

"I don't know. But it worries me."

"Listen, Xavier . . . it might be a program glitch." I purposefully avoid the alarm matter. Coincidence, man, coincidence.

"Possibly. But it might not be. Did your former employers ever give you reason to worry about their intentions? How much do you _trust_ the government?"

"How much do I trust _anyone_?"

Xavier shakes his head. "In many respects, you haven't changed much, have you?"

"Honestly, Xavier. The past twenty years haven't given me any new reasons to be as trusting as you wanted me to be."

"Are you _capable_ of healing, Forge?"

"Well, gee whilikers, time will tell, won't it?" 

"Perhaps it won't. Forge, it's your right to know. Your brain waves aren't any more human than they were before you left. If anything, they're less."

I blink, but I don't have the energy to be terribly surprised. Why should I be? Why should everything be all right? Especially if Xavier's stalking my doorstop. "So what? We both know I'm not a mutant, but I'm still acting like one. So let's say we both know I'm not human either, but I can very well act like one of _those_, too."

"Forge, I _know_ all this means much more to you than you let on. You haven't changed at _all_. Why can't you talk to me?"

"Because you're _Xavier_. It's like a high school reunion. You turn into the kid you were back then and, man, you're just like one of my classmates from '78. Like a best buddy I was trying to forget."

"Don't think I can't feel your anger, Forge. But it's terribly misdirected."

"I don't _care_. You're always walking right in here, into _me_, and telling me who I am whether I wanna hear it or not. And I'm _not_ the same, Xavier. I'm _not_. I'm just the same with _you._" I want to do something dramatic. I want to pull out the arm the she gave me _twenty years ago_ and stick in his face until he understands, but all I can do is cling to the doorjamb and try not to look like I'm leaning on it in the same moment.

"Forge, I'm only trying to say that there are factors that you _need_ to deal with before moving on like you say you want to. You're alive and you shouldn't be. The government appears to be _very_ interested in what you are and you're not exactly on the cusp of well-adjustment whatever happens. You're just as rawly bitter as you were twenty years ago, only it's tinged with something much more worrisome now. If I were a psychiatrist, I'd be forcing you on very strong anti-depressants at the very _least_."

"Look, if you think I'm going to go suicidal, I've been through that phase and it didn't work. I'm fine. Just give me _time_. Man, I just got back, you know."

"I also need your help."

I sneer almost without meaning to. "Well, I could've figured that. But, man, last time you needed _help . . . _"

"It's about Scott. And Kurt."

"Oh." Funny how quickly I deflate. Yeah . . . I can maybe see why those two would need help. 

"I need you to visit the Institute from time to time for observation purposes. _Please_. Every other student in my Institute, past and present, every mutant I've interacted with has had human brain patterns. Except you. And, to a certain extent, yes, Scott and Kurt. In their disparate ways, they don't appear to be fully human either. Not . . . not to your extent, but not fully human . . . "

"Oh gah." 

"As you say and I can confirm, from both your memories . . . and . . . Scott's, your she is dead. It can't be her influence and . . . I can tell you, I have observed several mutants who were also from that particular . . . "

"Callisto?" I have to blurt.

He pauses. "Yes."

"Where is she?"

"Here. In Bay-"

"_Where?_"

"I can't give you an _address_, Forge. Like most of those in your she's world, she inhabits the sewers now . . . "

I'm half off the doorstop before he stops me.

"Forge, patience, _please_. I'll help you locate her if you'll hear me out."

"Let's _walk_, then."

"Very well."

I help him (a little grudgingly) down to the sidewalk and we start moving. Slowly, to accomadate his wheelchair. Blast wheelchairs.

"As I was saying, I have observed other mutants presumably under the control of your she. They appear to be human. All of them. Callisto included. Again, you three are the only that would give me any doubt as to basic humanity. All three of you have extensive government files, yours being the most so. But only, apparently, because you've lived longer."

Hey, wait! "Kurt's Raven's kid, isn't he?"

"Ah . . . "

"You don't know? Where is Raven, anyway?"

"Bayville. She is the vice principal of the school, in fact."

"Eerie. Kurt sounds as German as all out. But he's gotta be Raven's. I mean, the color, the teeth, the eyes. Not the tail, but . . . "

"Raven did spend some time in Bavaria," Xavier accedes. "Along with Magneto."

" . . . not you?" Always liked Magneto better.

"No. Magneto and I had . . . differences and he and Raven took their leave."

"Where's Magneto now?"

"I am not sure."

"And you don't know who Kurt's parents are?"

"He was adopted."

Something about the context _that's_ in makes my eyes narrow. "From who? I mean, he's gotta have papers."

"He doesn't."

"Find him in the woods?"

"That's not something he or I knows. Forge . . . "

"See, Kurt doesn't _look_ human. I mean, his face is pretty human, but that's about as far as you can stretch it. Really like to know who his dad . . . "

"Forge, Kurt is not human in the same way you are not human. The variation is only in the extent of the anomaly, not the anomaly itself."

"What anomaly are we talking about, exactly? You keep talking about how my brain waves are funny . . . well, how are they funny?"

"It's difficult to put into words. Your brainwaves mimic those of a normal human in form, but it's almost as if they're created of a different material. This is the full description of _your_ brainwaves. In both Scott and Kurt, the alien brainwaves are sporadic. They mainly flare up during power use and . . . " His brow furrows, "apparently when they're being controlled, as they most certainly were today."

"Gah, there is that."

"Neither could I reverse their compulsion or even so much as recieve a clear picture of what they were doing or thinking."

"A-all right, I can see why that'd worry you. Poor kids being flung into possibly inescapable dimensions against their will . . . "

"Forge, you've never been compulsed in such a manner, have you?"

"No . . . ah, no. Never. There was a couple of times the she made me act against my will, but I was mostly aware . . . erg. Well, there was the five years I was catatonic. That probably counts."

"It's probably not the same thing. Forge, I have no doubt that Scott and Kurt were compulsed in such a way to _retrieve_ you."

"I guess that would make sense. Be a little too convenient otherwise."

Xavier's voice takes on a surprising edge. "I need to know who is doing this to my students . . . and, _yes_, why and how. If you can somehow get to the root of their . . . mental deviancy, that might just help _all_ of us, you included. Because, whoever they are, they're certainly after you."

I groan. "Again. Listen, Xavier. I _like_ Scott a lot. I think you might've figured that . . . and for the five minutes I got to talk to him, I think Kurt's a pretty okay guy. I'm all for helping them. Cross my heart and hope to die, man, you don't have to feed me any bribes about this. If you'd told me straight out . . ."

"The main danger is still yours."

"I don't care that much. I'm about all right with getting myself killed in the bargain."

"Forge."

"I'm not serious!"

"Hmmm. Of course, that would all be assuming you can die."

"'If you cut me, do I not bleed?'"

"Your healing capability may very well surpass Wolverine's, Forge."

"Wolvie-who?"

"It's not important. You'll meet him soon enough." Xavier pauses his wheelchair, of course, for the sole purpose of steepling his fingers. I sigh and stop as well. "I would like you to visit the Institute tomorrow, if you possibly can."

"Xavier, I'd _like_ to see my parents first . . . "

"Your parents will be back in the morning. They are on a joint business trip in Boston."

I squint at him. "Isn't that a little beyond your range?"

"I checked the neighbor who happens to be taking care of the cat."

"O-oh."

"Forge, will you visit the Institute tomorrow?"

"Are we even heading toward Callisto?"

"We're close enough. Forge, I want your word."

"Fine, fine, you have it."

"Then follow me."

It's only a matter of yards before Xavier's wheechair slips down the side of the curb and runs up against a manhole. "This cover is loose. Lift it up and she'll be within shouting distance."

"Great." I crouch down beside the metal and begin prying at it with my fingers.

"Forge, it _has_ been ten years."

"I know, I know. Just wanna say hi, all right?"

"Indeed?"

I glare up at him. "Honestly, Xavier, what do you think I'm going to _do?_"

"I know quite well what happened with Raven."

"That was twenty years ago! I was eighteen!"

"You still are."

"Ga-a-ah, nothing happened _then_." I shove the cover off, which takes an embarressing amount of my strength. "Besides, _like_ Raven, she outclasses me in weight and over all athleticism, right? Assuming I _wanted_ to, I still couldn't do _anything _she didn't want, right?" I inhale to continue and have to wince. "Man . . . why a _sewer_?"

Xavier shakes his head. "Just be careful."

"I'm careful!" I take a nervous hold on the rim of the manhole and lower myself into the blackness, toes flailing for a ladder. 

"And . . . Forge? Kindly _stop_ referring to yourself as thirty-eight? It's terribly annoying when I happen to know that you've only been properly conscious for _five_ of those years . . ."

I roll my eyes and just drop. Figure what can't kill me can _only_ break my leg.


	4. Did we mention NOTHING NEW under the hea...

I land unsteadily in about a foot of water, which makes enough of a splash that the high edge catches at my sleeve and soaks it. "Lovely," I mutter, glancing quickly up at the arpeture of wan-starlight overhead. There's the faint cast shadow of a wheelchair hovering vaguely in the center of the circle that light makes on the water, like a malformed Bat Signal. Hah hah.

"Hey, Xavier! Which direction?"

"North."

"Which direction is that?"

"The opposite one you're facing."

"Thanks."

I turn and wade into the rank darkness, _again_ wishing for Callisto-ish eyes. Honestly, she could run right past me and I wouldn't see much more than a blur on the black, if that. At the same time, I'm a little hesistent about actually calling out her name, because that just feels silly, you know? Besides, what if there's a dozen Callistos wandering the sewer and they're _all_ in my vicinity . . . ?

Oh, all right.

"Callisto!" I shout and it bounces through spaces I can't actually see and echoes back, let alone that nice walkable corrider I'm assuming is still in front of me. No answer. Well, why would she answer? She's as paranoid as me, at least. I keep wading, repeating the call at intervals, and the hair on the back of my neck rises about a second before something knocks me backward into the sewage.

I curl up and take most of it on my back, although my head is pretty well dunked in it despite my efforts. And wow, but it smells. I struggle sidewise into a balanced sprawl, trying to place my attacker, although I have a fair idea of who it is.

And thank goodness, I don't have to look far. She's standing above me, straddling the river of filth (I should have _thought_ of that. Cleaner), a pole crossing her trunk diagonally and pressing against either wall. "Who are you?" she growls. Yeah, it's her all right.

"Well, uh, gee," I try to shift into more of sitting position. "I guess it's been a while. I'd think you'd recognize me immediately, but it's kinda dark." And you can see anyway! Come on!

"Name."

"Forge ring a bell? Maybe?"

"I'm not sure. Why would you be carrying that name?"

__

Definitely more paranoid than me. I suppose it _has_ been ten years. "It's mine."

"Really."

"Yes."

"The only Forge I know is dead."

"As I remember, that particular Forge had a bad habit of ruining towels for no good reason." The stench is so . . . _strong_. I guess one gets accustomed to it. I focus my eyes on the glitter that has to be her sole one and smile crookedly and will her to know me. 

She whips down and drags me up by my shirt-front (you know, I really _hate_ that) and stares at me hard, her face a millimeter from being pressed against mine . . . 

Then she laughs and it's all right. "_You_. You're still insane. Just waltzing in here like it's a field of flowers instead of the leavings of every toilet . . . " And still in that half dangling position, she brings her other arm suddenly around and hugs me so fiercely my ribs twinge. "I _missed_ you, Forge. Oh, I missed you!"

I'd cry if I could breathe.

She lets me go carefully, withdrawing to a ledge before she does, although I'm dripping enough anyway. "Y-you know, Callisto . . . I just took a shower."

She laughs again. "Oh well! Come on, let's get up on the street. You're blind as a bat down here, I know."

"So she did kill you again," she sighs as we finally pause next to a streetlight, our shadows stretching out behind us, pale on the sidewalk.

"But it's over. I'm _here_ now. Just here." I spread my arms. "Done. I can just be myself . . ."

"Can you?" There's a sad lilt to her voice as she stares past me into the straggling traffic. "It hasn't been easy for any of us, adjusting. Hiding in the shadows because it's too much to trust the light just yet . . . and, Forge, you've never trusted _anything_."

I blink at her echo of what I told Xavier earlier. "I trust _you._"

"No, you don't. You like me, but that's not the same thing."

"Like you?" 

Her shoulders heave as she sighs again. "Why were you always so set on dying, Forge? I don't think you had to. If you really wanted, you could have . . . maybe escaped with us."

"No! No, Callisto, I couldn't. Well, maybe I could've, if I'd had more time, but, you know . . . "

She takes my hand and holds it tightly, her expression hard, her scar stretching white against her skin. "No hedging. No modifiers. I want this straight. Do you actually love me?"

I'm baffled. Can't we keep on one thread of conversation? I can't follow all this jumping . . . And I'm immediately ashamed for thinking exactly what she's probably afraid I'm thinking. Not even related to the subject she's _intent_ on, detatching myself automatically from anything that's too hard . . . . And there I go again.

I have to swallow twice before I can answer her.

"Yes. Yes, Callisto." 

"Then _why_ couldn't you let me help you? If I'd _been_ there . . . "

"You would have still left and I would have still stayed. There isn't anything . . . "

"In what _you saw_. You never let anyone _else_ look. You're the master of all there is to know. Didn't it _even_ occur to you . . ."

I flinch and she breaks off, but her hand on mine is trembling with something. Whether it's rage or not I'm afraid to know.

"I'm sorry. It was ten years ago. But . . . I always had to wonder if there was some way I could have gotten you out, if you let me."

"I didn't _want_ to die, Callisto."

"Yes, you did. You wanted to die from the first moment I saw you aware of yourself. And you still want to die."

"No."

"Yes. You _succumbed_ to it, Forge. We all do, to some extent or another, but She really _got_ to you. You can't see it, you never could, but you _reek_ of despair to everyone else. Even drifters and idiots like Scaleface were able to read it in you and _listen_, it hasn't gotten any better."  


"Are you sure you're just not smelling sewer?"

"_Listen_." She takes my chin with her other hand and forces me to look at her. Sometimes I wonder if it's exactly this mandatory eye contact that makes me hate these positions so much. It's my instinct to break away as quickly as I can and I have to beat down the impulse to stop standing like an offended statue. "We're all scarred and I'm not asking you to be all right. I know you can't _help_ it. I know you're not doing it on purpose. But I want you to _remember_ that . . . you . . . have . . . me. I don't care if that means anything to you right now, but _eventually_, even if everything else in whatever life you've come back to falls apart, even if you find another She, I want you to be able to remember that I _care_ for you and, so help me, I don't care if it's selfish, if you try to burn yourself to ashes again, I'll do everything in my power to stop you."

I bring my hand up, placing it on the back of hers, but it's calculated and I know it. 

__

You don't love her, a voice hisses nastily. I ignore it, or try to. Because in the same instant it fades, I have to agree with it.

I don't love anyone. All the promises she's making to me now should wrench at my heart and force compliance, or at least tears. Intellectually, I care for her. But that's all. My anticipation was great, but once she came to me, my mind left. It's like I'm hovering over myself and pulling the strings and calling out dialogue that will lead to an appropriate reaction, but . . . but . . .

__

Well done, the voice snickers. _Nice to see you finally admit it._

I open my mouth to respond, to somehow cancel out everything I just said and explain to her that she should really turn around right now and find someone who's not obligated to love her when it's all empty banter and posture in the end, I'm sorry . . . when there's a high pitched whistle. Slight at first, but ascending so fast that my eardrums pop and the sidewalk and Callisto and everything is gone in an instant.

It ranges up to a single-toned scream and stops. The world is grey again and I'm just sitting in it, too shocked to react beyond that.

__

Just between you and me, Forge . . .

And me!

Okay, just between you and us_, Forge, this whole "Let's make fantasy worlds in our heads and play around for years" is getting a little annoying._

"Fantasy world?" I squeak, grabbing one arm with the other. It didn't seem like a . . . 

__

It's time to wake up. You've had your fun, but we have better things to do than find oppurtunities to drill reality into your head.

Exactly. We could be shopping for bodies. I almost had_ Brad Pitt's, too. Just a slightly higher bid on e-bay . . ._

I bend over my arms, trying not to listen. Oh please, not this _again_ . . . 

__

While you've been asleep, we've been watching. We've been doing all the work. You've got to take on the load, now. Things are changing and you're needed.

I mean, we understand and all. You're not going to like waking up after an extended fantasy about waking up. It's human nature! You don't like doing things twice, even if the first time was a sham.

But you've got to. Sorry, kid, but hanging out in your parents' house and searching for Morlocks just isn't on the agenda.

"Morlocks?" I finally croak. "What are those?"

__

Like we said, we've_ been doing all the work._

You had your nap, we did research. Lots of it.

"What the crap are you?" I snap, a little weakly.

__

That's none of your business, buddy. We stick your necks out for you and, therefore, we just ain't obliged to give you any information we don't want to.

Besides, we're pathological liars.

"You and everyone else. What do you mean, waking up?" 

__

We mean that you keep getting yourself killed and you haven't actually_ revived yet. You just dreamed you did and that was really annoying._

I groan and make a fair attempt to smash my face in with my elbow.

__

Cut that out! It won't do you any good, since this_ is just a dream, too!_

"I'm so frickin' _sick_ --" I start, but the grey suddenly gets more oppressive and the words gum up in my throat.

__

Language, boy. Calm down, it'll just be a moment now.

Oh, he really won't like it.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't like anything. He's such an ungrateful brat.

Not to mention a sociopath.

Tsk tsk. Now, Forge, you're exactly the kind of crazed nut who dreams up alternate realities to give himself the illusion of being "happy" and having "friends" and "not being a total putz." I'm afraid that reality-reality is a lot nastier than what you thought you saw.

You keep taking the information we feed you in an attempt to make you, I don't know, do something, and turning it into utopia. It's true, there are people called Scott and Kurt who need your help, but they don't look like that.

And your parents are still alive and, sure, they probably still keep your clothes in a holy dresser, but they've moved to Canada.

__

And Callisto's not waiting for you. Nor would she say any of those things if she did run into you.

We only let you dream about her so you'd wake up.

Smell the manure.

You're not meant for her.

You're not meant for anyone.

You're not even alive.

Never have been.

Never will be.

So let us wake you up. And you'll do what you need to. Then we'll let you die. In what sense you can.

We'll dismantle you and turn off your worrying. How's that?

Now wake up.

I do. Mid-scream. How over-dramatic it is to scream, but I do, and my scream is unfortunately not facilitated by air. I breathe in something thicker, thicker than water and even blood, although it tastes like blood (albeit blood with more sodium than it than's good for you) and my immediate thought is that waking up hardly _matters_ if you're going to die again immediately.

But whatever the voices keep muttering, I'm not _ready_ to go again right yet. I flail around for boundaries, for bearings, and my numb fingers brush against glass. Another second, and I've forced out my arm-thing. Use it to batter the glass, over and over again, even as the rest of my body starts slowing into a dying tingle and in what has to be the last moment, it shatters.

I pour out with the liquid, and there's a brief stab of pain as a sharp edge of the glass snags my shoulder. I land heavily on my upper back and the rest of me somersaults over the landing point. I'm face down in grey-red jello and start coughing and intermittently throwing up. Have to get rid off all the junk collected in my lungs somehow.

"Well, crap," I mutter, when I can breathe again. 

I'm not sure where I am. The lighting is very dim. I seem to have fallen out of the busted glass cylinder set on a shortish platform. It's looming over me now, about a fourth full. The hole I came from is about halfway up and hairline cracks skitter around it in a vague aura, some widening, all dripping. There's wires visible that seem to have been forcibly snapped. Huh. And a sensor readout perched next to the cylinders and connected to the wires is reading a flat, beeping line over and over again.

The rest of the room that I can see in my peripheral vision is all boxes and shadows and very uninteresting, with no clue as to why on earth I'd be here. But, honestly, apparently what happens to be me isn't allowed to make sense. I don't think there's much doubt now I've totally lost it . . . I mean, you can only live in this seperate reality, than _that_ seperate reality, for so long before . . .

I turn around, slipping on the jello, and there is one other inhabitant after all.

It's a large, glassed off area, like a snake cage in a zoo, and although the lighting is wan, there is more of it than outside where I'm sprawled. An old, ratty mattress is lumped in the center and someone is sleeping on it. Well, maybe not sleeping. He's lying at an angle where even faint light glances hard off his glasses and makes it difficult to see beyond them. 

"Hello?" I say tentitively, struggling out of the jello and trying not to inhale through my nose. I know I'm doused in the stuff, but one sense's information on that front is enough. Well, two.I can see it _and_ feel it dribbling down the front of what's left of my shirt. Allow me an ew or so. I think I'm allowed, no matter _how_ used and over-used I am to the sensation.

There's a groan from the man in the cage and he shifts audibly on the mattress springs. His glasses now point in my direction and his brow furrows with some automatic confusion. There's something odd about him, but it's hard to place. I'll have it in a moment when my brain clears.

"You're the man in the canister," he says. His tone is blunt, but his voice proper is soft. Very weak.

"Um, I guess," I say, squinting at him to get a better feel. Very odd . . . 

"You looked pretty dead," he points out, propping himself tentatively on a skinny elbow. Even that strain seems on the verge of breaking him. I expect a dead faint any moment.

"Suppose I did. What're you in for?" Squint, squint, come on! 

"I've got a disease," he whispers flatly, "that kills mutants on touch. I emit spores and they're deadly."

Got it. "No, they're not," I counter, my voice rising with inevitable excitement. "Unfertilized, they're harmless, not that I know what they do when they're fertilized, but it's really not that much of a worry, because if you're that dangerously unique, there can't be too many spore people running around, so it's probably just fine and you can at least come out for a walk."

He stares at me. "What?" he finally gasps.

"You're fine," I summarize succinctly. "I mean, nothing personal, but you look a little ragged and whoever's keeping us both here really doesn't seem to have much sense of hygeine, if you know what I mean. So, I don't know, hanging around here might not been in your best interest." I don't add that he looks on the edge of starvation. Keep people happy, if we can. 

"I'm fine?" He repeats, his position on his elbow looking more precarious by the moment.

"I'm sure you are. Listen, I bet I'm in here for the same reason as you. We can _become_ dangerous in certain situations, I mean, I'm really a little bit of an inhuman sociopath, but I'm a fairly nice guy in most circumstances, do you know what I mean?" The words are spilling out at a quicker rate than I can control them and I run my fingers through my hair to distract myself from the man's desperate stare. Of course, this is a mistake, since my hands are filthy. Then again, so is my hair. Whatever. "What I'm saying is that you could be, well, maybe, dangerous if other factors were to combine, but probably, they won't, at least, not in your first five minutes of freedom, so I think I'm going to let you out." 

"Can you?" he asks.

"Don't see why not. Do you know what's in these boxes?"

"Not a clue. I've only been inside here . . . " He loses his balance and the elbow squews one way and the rest of him another. He curses under his breath. Something about that strikes me as familiar.

"Well, all right, I have a tool or two built in." Arm-thing comes out again, clicking and clacking eagerly. The young man's stare, even though sidelong now, manages to become more intense.

"I've seen that before."

"Oh, so have I." It's niggling now. Something's funny here, there's some connection you're supposed to make.

I decide, forcefully, that I don't care. 

"Now, maybe if I bang this thing hard enough against the glass . . . that worked the first time . . . " I step up to the glass and, without warning, my arm-thing expands and splits into several prongs. Without my control or thought, one prong after another sinks into the glass, forming a rough circle with the middle bare.

"Huh, it's never done --"

I'm interrupted by a sudden vibrating climbing up my shoulder. In an attempt to confuse me further, my arm-thing has produced something like a _jackhammer_ to attack the center of the circle and in a matter of seconds, the glass reduces itself to sand-size shards and there's a wide, clean hole perfect for escaping.

"Cool," I admit. The young man tries to hoist himself off the mattress, his expression different (not gleeful or thankful, but different), but doesn't seem to have the strength.

Something breaks through the indifference I've been maintaining so well and the next thing I know, I've withdrawn the arm-thing, and gone to his side, fighting a hurt back down my throat that's really inappropriate for a stranger . . . 

Stranger . . . 

"Here, take my shoulder." He tosses a bony hand at it, but doesn't quite make the distance. That's fine. I scoot closer, one hand firmly on the shoulder farthest from me and the other on the arm closer, and hoist him to his feet. The fact that I can actually _do_ this without straining something is a bad sign for the kid.

"I think I know you," he gasps, as his feet flail a little sideways against the floor. All my deep compassion aside, I don't think I'm up to carrying him.

"That's funny. Oh, um, sorry, I'm really dirty at the moment."

"That's all right."

__

You know who he is. Stop being difficult.

You shut up, I snap back. _You're only allowed to intrude when you gotta wake me up, remember? So butt out._

"You know," I say anyway, hating myself. "There _is_ something about you . . . that's familiar, I dunno . . . "

He's fainted.

"Well, okay, I'll quiz you later."I heave ####### his arm and draghis body over my shoulders. I think I'm going to tip over on my face, but, magically, one knee juts out for balance while the other leg juts backward, and, gradually, I begin a slow walk toward the hole.

There's a skittish movement in the shadows, which coalesces into a pudgy character, too big for his clothes and swelling them, his hands strangling each other and his eyes wide.

"Ya can't bring 'im out!"

"He's not going to kill you," I snap. This isn't the time for shenanigans. "See? I'm, like, carrying him and I've never been happier in my life!"

"You're the dead man," says the bright boy, but he doesn't come any closer and I ignore him. Stagger, stagger, lift a leg high enough to clear the glass, and we're through. By that time, someone else has joined the boy, a worn-out girl who's built like seventeen and wrinkled like thirty. 

"Who'd've thought. Rescued by the Thing. 'Ey, Thing, yer breakin' decency laws," she purrs. That's harder to ignore. Who _purrs_?

"By doing what?" I mutter, looking for an exit. My back is already popping a little from the strain. 

"'Oney, you been in that cylinder fer years an' clothes start fallin' apart, even if you don'."

"Not my concern at the moment," I say so smoothly. Never mind that I'm blushing. "I'm getting out of here. If you could, you know, point the way . . . "

"I am the way," says a dark voice that I know. "You have to leave through me, Forge."

"Magneto?" I ask, searching the shadows. 

"Over here." And he emerges dramatically, older, white-haired, but less bent than I am. Then again, I am hauling an invalid, here.

"Hi." I can't think of anything else to say at the moment.

"I see you're awake. I knew you would, eventually."

The crap. "Um, great. Mags, nice to see you. Been a while, a lot to catch up on, but I think my buddy here's fading. Nearest hospital, if you please."

Yes, it has occured to me that Magneto is _in_ this warehouse, talking in very familiar terms, as if he's been quite aware of my every movement for who-knows-how-long and that the keep apparently has nicknames for me and they're all responsible for the person on my back. But sometimes people _like _you to play clueless. Makes them feel superior. And then they do what you want out of flattered pity. Sometimes.

"A hospital won't do him any good, Forge."

This is getting into the aggravating stage. "I think it will do just _fine_ for all the extraneous symptoms like _starvation_."

"I can't let you take him."

"Come on, I know he's not deadly. He _will_ however, be dead."

"A few minutes won't make a difference, Forge. I need to talk to you."

"My back is breaking here, _sir_."

"Then put him down."

"Not gonna happen, man. Show me the way out and we can have lunch _later_."

"Very well. Tabitha, Lance. Start packing up. Forge, follow me."

I weave after Magneto, and when he waves hidden doors open and the breeze blows in, I can't help but shudder. I feel so exposed. The weight on my back isn't lessening, but my muscles in that area are starting to numb and that will be a comfort up until I collapse.

"You'll want to go to the Xavier Institute, rather than the hospital. They'll have the facilities to take care of him, no questions asked."

"Xavier . . . " I gasp. 

"Xavier has been the equivelent of his father for a long time now, Forge. Do you know who he is?"

All right, all right. "Scott. Yes, I know who he is."

We've stopped on a metal platform. Magneto raises his hand and it rises with a long groan.

"I know something about his stay in the She's prison, Forge."

I look up at him, a somewhat awkward move in my current position. "You do. Prison."

"He's built to be activated, Forge. It would really be better if he died."

This is too weird. I know _very well_ that Scott is not . . . or wasn't . . . "If he dies, Magneto . . . " I make my voice as threatening as I can without the lungs to back it up. "If he dies . . . you'll pay for it. I don't care who you are or what you know."

"I suppose that attitude's only appropriate," Magneto sighs. "But I will talk with you. Soon."

"Whatever," I snap and the platform comes to a halt. The wall opens up into a parking lot and a horizon scattered with taller buildings than I used to associate with Bayville.

"Give me your hand, if you can," Magneto says flatly. With a scowl, I shift Scott's weight to one shoulder and proffer a palm. Magneto drops a set of keys into it. I could swear they were kept in a freezer previously, they're that cold. "The sole car in the parking lot is yours, Forge. We won't be here if you come back and I won't come for it. I don't need it. The Xavier Institute is on the opposite side of Bayville from here. Just turn right and keep driving in as much as a straight line as possible. You'll find it."

"I don't suppose you have any pants stuffed under the driver's seat?"

Magneto smiles. "I'm afraid not. If you'll wait, I could get a pair for you."

"Never mind. I'll try not to get pulled over."

I close my hand tight over the keys and pull Scott into a better position. Resume the stagger.

Technically, I should be thanking Magneto for letting me go and giving me a car and keeping me fresh and hearty in a giant lab tube, but I'm too angry at the moment. Scott's in really bad shape, terminal neglect, here, and . . . 

Come to think of it, how _did_ I end up in a giant lab tube? Question number one for proposed lunch date. Question number two, why is Scott . . . 

But stop it now, Forge, there are far more important things to think about. Like driving really fast (in a lawful manner) and saving Scott's life. If possible.

Not if possible. No, the life _has_ to be saved, the end.

I slide Scott gently down against the pavement so I can unlock the car. Then (and my muscles are screaming to give out, but I manage) I lift him up into the front-passenger seat and buckle the belt, just in case. I know how long it's been since I drove.

Luckily, the inside of the car isn't so alien that I don't think I know how it works. I don't know what half the dials on the dashboard are, but I didn't know what half the dials on the dashboard were on my old car, either. I could find out by staring real hard at them, but I didn't want to then and I didn't have time now. As long as the car didn't fly or drill underground, they wouldn't be any use anyway.

I back out, turn around, and go right.

And realized just how foreign an environment I'd woke up in.

There. Are. Cars. In. The. Street. A whole lot of them.

My hands immediately tense on the wheel.

"Scott, if I kill us both, please forgive me. It's not intentional. Oh cra-a-a-ap."

There are _four_ lanes now? Since when does anyone need four lanes? I was always happy with one, or, if you had to be excessive, two. Of course, it didn't _use_ to be that big of a town and there were already too many roads for the houses and . . . 

An angry chorus of honking comes from behind me. I can't figure it out. I'm in the lane. I'm not swerving yet. I don't think I've run over anyone's cat . . . 

Oh, I guess I am going five miles per hour. 

That's counterproductive.

Reluctantly, I press on the gas.

Xavier, Xavier, here I come. And don't you _dare_ go kaput on me, Scott, or I'm going to feel very useless, okay?


	5. I applied my heart to know wisdom

The Institute hasn't outwardly changed much since I made my visit years ago, only, maybe, it's slightly larger, there are more shapes in the garden, and the gates are open. There's a shadow adjoining the road and my headlights close carefully on it (I never saw the sense on sprinting the last leg of the journey and smashing night-bound pedestrians) and that shadow turns into a young woman, waving frantically, her expression starkly muddied by the light, but probably concerned.

I press the brake, roll down the window, and lean my head out before she can get too near. I don't need any young ladies opening my door in their haste for conversation.

"I've got a Scott here. Your delivery?"

"Sir! Are you all right?"

Real shower, next time. "I'm okay. Where can I put . . . "

"Go right in, we've got people waiting to carry him," she says, her voice very high and strained. I'm still expecting her to jump in the car with me, so I roll up the window and ease on the gas, making sure she's out of the way first.

My headlights glint off people quickly enough. One is of the massive and hairy species, the other is of a similar massive and hairy species, only slightly shorter and less blue. I park next to them and open the door a tad (the young lady doesn't seem to have followed and it is dark).

"He's in the . . ." They've already wrenched open the passenger door and are tugging the youngster out. "Hey, careful!"

Second hairy man shoots me a glare, visible even in the dark. "An' who're _you_, bub?"

"I . . . " but he's already gone, striding over the lawn with the body in his arms. First hairy man, still here, shrugs.

"He's like that. If'd you'd accompany me inside, Forge, I'd appreciate your help with Scott."

Where have I heard that voice before? Gingerly, I remove the keys and slip around the front of the car. I can't help but be mortified there might be minors coursing the grounds even at this hour.

"I'll shield you if you want," the voice says, amused. "But everyone awake _should_ be in the library. Come on, now." 

He lopes and I follow, my mind still working for recognition.

"So," I venture, somewhere between road and door, "Xavier told you my name, right? Brief, ah, briefing? Sensed my mind coming at a steady tilt and . . . "

"Xavier's had an alert set on Scott's brain waves, should they reappear, on Cerebro. Whether he has one on yours or not, I don't know, although I'm assuming he knew you were coming once he examined the alert. In any case, I remember you."

"Huh." This is beginning to be a trend. "I'm trying to place . . . "

"Hank McCoy, Forge. We shared a few classes back in high school, I believe."

"Oh. Yeah." I eye him a bit dubiously, but decided asking out his condition would be impolite. "Chemistry, right?"

"Right. We might have been lab partners a couple of times."

The door is looming up fast and Hank reaches a massive hand to shove it open. He holds it for me, his face set and grim. It's not time for friendly reminiscence now, but I respond, just to keep the silence from becoming ominous.

"You were, ah, pretty good at chemistry, as I recall."

The hall is well lighted. I wish it weren't. But at least it appears to be empty. Beast lets the door close and knuckles forward, his bulk forming a sort of bulwark against prying eyes should any children come running through, I guess.

"Not good enough, eh? If I were quite the genius I thought I was back then, I wouldn't look like this now."

Oh, how nice, he _does_ want to talk about it.

"You were a mutant," I remember.

"Still am. Obviously. I kept it shackled with chemicals, Forge. Ultimately, my formulas were useless."

"Huh. I'm sorry." Too bad we weren't close, buddy, or I'd pat you on the shoulder. When you're packing arms like that, I think I'll forego the risk. 

"I'm sorry, too." He sends a meaningful, sidelong glance back at me.

"Oh? Uh . . . right." He's probably referring to the obvious fact that, indeed, he is likewise sorry that he's a hairy blue thing, thank you very much. We've reached an elevator and I scoot back into it, Hank rumbling after me, pressing a button with a rapid thumb.

"You, ah, you really _do_ have facilities capable of . . . _handling _Scott, don't you?"

"We have better technology than most, if not all, if the United States," Hank says, his tone uninterested and glib. This is a rote speech. "If anyone can help him, we can. Particularly . . . particularly you and me."

"My gifts and yours combined, then," I say, matching his timbre. "You were always a better chemist than I was, but I _can _tell you . . .or build . . . "

"Forge, you could always do anything you wanted," Hank says and is that a note of exasperation? "_Anything_. You can help Scott better than I can. I'm just providing the materials."

I don't know what to say. So I keep my mouth shut until the lift re-opens in a basement of some sort and Hank leads me down yet another corridor. A glass door hangs ajar about halfway along and Hank waves me inside.

Scott's already on a bed, IV in arm, looking very drawn. His glasses are uneasily perched against his cheekbones. The second hairy man is sitting on a chair beside, arms folded, one leg hooked over the opposite knee, his face contorted and scowling.

"What took yer so long? Kid don' got a cold, 'ere."

"I'm quite aware of that," Hank countered angrily. "Forge, what do you know about his condition?"

Feeling awkward, I squint. "Uh . . . besides malnourishment, there seems to be a widespread spore infestation in his blood stream and . . . ah, sebaceous glands." Odd . . . "Ah, spores emit some kind of neural transmitter that affects the cerebellum and pituitary and . . ." I blink, ". . . essentially force the host into becoming a sort of manufacturing plant and incubation room combined."

"All right. Can you counteract it?"

Something's _blocking_ me. "No. No, I can't. It's . . . it's . . . oh, see, there's sort of a center for the spores in the back of the brain, where the vision center usually is, can't remember the name, and -- Hank, that _is_ the entire back of his brain. You can't remove it!" This isn't _right_. But, then again, then again, I saw Scott without the . . . 

"Hank," and the man is staring at me with intent concentration. "Hank, I don't think this infestation is a recent thing at all. Scott had a severe head injury when he was eight, didn't he? Don't you have the records?"

Hank has been good enough so far not to quiz me about how I know _anything_ about Scott and he efficiently lumbers to a computer terminal handily placed, his fingers already snapping rapidly. The hairy man gives me a suspicious glare.

"Who are ya?" he snarls. I suppose I can spare a word.

"Forge. How de do?"

"So what can ya do, chippy? You an instant ER?"

"Save questions for after the procedure, sir. I'm sure Xavier can tell you everything. Hank?"

"Brain trauma is mentioned on his files, Forge. Mentions severe lack of motor skills and poor eyesight, but it's a surprisingly sparse profile. Sloppy. Reads like he was handed over to adoption agencies before any sort of full recovery could be made."

"Essentially, anything could have happened, then."

"With poor records like this, yes. No X-Rays, no details of anatomical damage, just the bare symptoms."

"Too bad. See, Hank, I _saw _Scott's injury when it was fresh. It was fatal, Hank. Would-be fatal, anyway."

"Describe it."

"Gaping. I could see well into his skull. Things were obviously missing."

"All right. As Scott is still alive, what are you suggesting?"

"I think maybe something was replaced."

"Somewhere between mountain slope and hospital?"

"I don't know."

"It's a little far fetched, Forge."

"Tell me about it." I sigh and glance back at Scott. "I don't think I know what to do, though."

"We'll be feeding nutrients into him as quickly as possible without doing further damage. But he's pretty far along and it won't be enough, especially if the spores will be eating along with him. I think you need to think harder, Forge."

"I'm trying! Look, he _does_ look a _bit_ better than when I found him."

"An hour makes that much difference? Is he magically gathering strength from the fresh air?"

"I _don't know_," I hiss and instantly regret it. Hank keeps sending me those sidelong looks that I'm not sure how to interpret and I have to wonder if something is going on here under the surface. Oh, if only I wasn't involved. I'm not good at these guessing games.

"Forge, your _power _is to know. I'm sorry if I'm agitating you, but this really isn't the time . . ." He pauses. A gleam comes into his eyes. Which makes me uncomfortable. "What if I gave you something to work with?"

"You mean, information?"

"No." He steps away from the computer terminal and puts a massive hand on a bank of dials and blinking lights and wires. Machinery. None of that silly pure IOIOIOIO data stuff either. Hard machinery. "I mean this."

My right hand twitches. I snatch it with my other hand to suppress it.

"What does it do?"

"Synthesizes chemicals."

Now my left hand is twitching. The stupid appendages haven't been so excited in a while.

The hairy man growls. "Beast, you _sure_ this is a good idea . . . ?"

"I think it's a _great_ idea," Hank smiles. "Have a go, Forge?"

"Maybe it's n-not a good idea," I chatter, trying to counteract my hands, which are going into withdrawal convulsions, dangit. "It's probably very expensive . . . I really have n-no experience with . . ." Oh, heck with it. I take some rapid steps toward the machine. "Might wanna stop me now, I'm warning you."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

He withdraws, still smiling, and my conscious mind is horribly creeped out, but my hands are already grasping hungrily at the controls.

Within a few seconds, they're flailing and pushing and adjusting all over the bank and, as usual, I don't have a clue what they're doing.

But _something's_ happening. At least, more lights are blinking than were a moment ago.

"Are you _sure_ 'e knows what 'e's doin'?"

"Better than I do. Which, if I may be so proud, is saying a lot."

"I don't have a cluuuuuue," I repeat to myself in a low whistle. I could put that to music and make it my mantra.

Something dings insistently and Hank moves forward to check it, taking care to stay out of my way. Not that he need have bothered. My hands seem to be satisfied with whatever they just did.

There's a series of tubes running off the bank. These are what Hank is prodding, along with an accompanying display screen.

"I have no idea what you just created," he finally says, shaking his head. "In fact, since I don't even _recognize_ some of these components, it's safe to say we don't have them stored here. Well, well, let's not rule out spontaneous generation. What does it do?"

I peer over his shoulder, putting my accustomed squint back on. "Suppresses the spores. They'll go into hibernation."

"That's a start, then. I don't suppose it could lower his metabolism?"

"Suppresses that, too. It's like a sedative, kinda."

"And I do hope it's safe to administer by IV?"

I squint harder. "Uh, I think so!"

Hank grunts and transfers the material in the tubes into a second IV bag with surprising grace, although he has to circumvent yet another scowl and dangerous mutter from the hairy man before inserting the needle into Scott's arm.

And, you know what, he _is_ looking better. Even if it is only my imagination.

"Now . . . we wait. Mmmph, but, Forge, I think it'd be fine if you took a few minutes off to rinse and change clothes, at this point. No offense, but it does smell."

"I'm in complete agreement with that," I say with forced stiffness. "Uh, where should I go?"

"There's a room just off the infirmary for showering purposes. I don't know about clothes . . ."

"Not lendin' 'im mine."

"That's predictably generous of you, Logan, but I don't think he'd fit. We do have, yes, a set of simple hospital pull ons for emergency, in that drawer there. I hope that'll do for now?"

"I'm not picky. Plan to go shopping as soon as I can spare the time."

"All right, then. Get washed and dressed. Then . . . I'd like to talk to you."

Mmmm hmmm. You and everyone else. But I nod. Hank's not really so bad. Even if I'd rather not chat with hairy man hanging around like a pit bull.


End file.
